


Infinite Madness

by TwisterMelody



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-31
Updated: 2013-08-31
Packaged: 2017-12-25 01:23:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/946960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwisterMelody/pseuds/TwisterMelody
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock attend a dinner party in hopes of catching a murderer, and must dress to play the part. The attire, however, sparks a hypothetical argument in the midst of it all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Infinite Madness

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Let's Write Sherlock: Challenge 4!  
> Prompt: Write a fic that is exactly 1895 words long and ends with the word “obviously.”  
> I wrote this with slash in mind, but it can be read without that view as well.  
> 

"Are you sure this is necessary?" John called out to Sherlock as he stood in front of the mirror over the fireplace. He tugged on his well-fitting charcoal grey waistcoat in slight annoyance.

"Of course it is," came the reply drifting from the bedroom down the hall. Sherlock's voice resonated throughout the flat as his steady footsteps entered the room. "We'll have to blend in, of course."

"Blend in," John echoed in a huff. "There won't be much blending in on the way there." His hands smoothed over his tie as he gave himself a once-over in the mirror. "You know, it's not as if -" his words died in his throat as he turned and caught a glimpse of Sherlock.

He stood near John buttoning the cuffs of his own white shirt, the amber glow of the fireplace softening his features. He managed to look even longer and leaner than usual in his black trousers, matching waistcoat, and crisp tie. His usual mop of hair was somewhat smoothed at the top and parted to the side, the ends curling wildly in protest. He slid on his black jacket effortlessly and finally looked at John with a dangerous grin at the corner of his lips.

"What?"

"How is it that in these clothes you manage to look like _that_ , and I look like," he didn't finish his sentence, instead gesturing wildly to himself in his matching attire.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and snatched up John's charcoal grey jacket from the armchair, ushering him into it. Their eyes met in the mirror. "You look fine. Although..." Sherlock trailed off and gestured down to the item in his open palm.

John sighed and took it. After fiddling with it for a moment or so, he turned around and presented himself. "Well?"

Sherlock's mouth went agape, and he promptly shut it with a snap. "Do me a favor and never grow an _actual_ mustache, John," he said in a terrible attempt to stifle a giggle.

"Right, then. Let's just get this over with, shall we?" John tucked his gun into the waistband of his trousers. He grabbed a bowler hat from the table and sat it upon his head as Sherlock donned a top hat, and they set out to the party.

Night was quickly closing in around the city, the dark edges of the evening making their way through the streets with the glow of the lamps guiding the way. John stared out the window, and when he caught a glimpse of Sherlock's reflection in it, he just couldn't resist chuckling.

"What?"

"You," John said, "in _those_ clothes, _texting_. You look completely out of place." Sherlock said nothing. "Are you sure this is going to work?"

Sherlock sighed deeply and pocketed his phone. "Murder mystery dinner, John, thrown by one of the wealthiest men in the city. Hundreds will be there for the occasion, dressed to play their part. Of course it's going to work."

"I don't think witnessing an actual murder scene is in the description, though," John remarked.

Sherlock grinned at him. "Precisely why we're going to prevent it."

"You would think after two of his friends were killed, Alexander Mason would have noticed something odd, and at least called off the dinner."

"He doesn't care about people," Sherlock told him as they climbed out of the taxi. The three story home stood alone, surrounded by greenery and built with stone. The glow from the windows was nearly blinding and the entrance was illuminated by bright lights. Sherlock leaned in close to him as they walked over the cobblestone path. "He cares about money, same as his wife. That, and he's a complete moron," Sherlock bit out. "Madison has killed two men, and killing her husband tonight - it would blend right in! Everyone would think it was a part of the dinner, and she would have the perfect alibi, getting away with every penny he's ever made," Sherlock said, voice intensely low as they reached the entrance.

They smiled politely and were lead inside a grand brightly lit room filled with a throng of people dressed for the party. The men wore suits and hats while the women dressed in elegant floor length dresses, their hair put up in a sophisticated manner. There were two dozen or so overly large round tables set up, a large centered chandelier giving everything in the open room a soft yellow glow. Sherlock and John took their places at a table in the corner of the room. Alexander Mason had said hello to the crowd when he emerged. He was a taller man in his late thirties, dark auburn hair, and a cheerfulness about him that came off as unnatural. As the festivities began, Sherlock groaned and snickered at every comment the host had made.

"Sherlock!" John hissed at him. "Behave!"

"Well honestly, John," he began, his voice a low rumble, "this entire thing is ridiculous. Just look around. I can tell you just exactly who is playing which role. All you have to do is pay attention to their posture." People around them happily chatted about as Sherlock went on. "Besides, the motive? Obvious. Surely there were more interesting crimes from this era to go off of."

John pinched the bridge of his nose in agitation. "Yeah, well, perhaps there was another great Sherlock Holmes running around London at the end of the 19th century solving them all," he grumbled. He took a quick look at Sherlock who was peering down at his hands hidden underneath the table. The familiar motion and flicker of his eyes gave him away, tapping through his phone. "Though I know that can't be true," he added, "because there's no way you'd last ten minutes without your bloody phone!"

The sounds of clinking silverware and bellowing laughter surrounded them, and John gave his attention back to the reason they were there - to catch a murderer in the act. Or hopefully, before the act. Sherlock shot him a look as he pocketed his phone, and then leaned in, giving him a nudge.

"There," Sherlock indicated with a head tilt. On the far side of the room, there was a woman in her thirties standing in the doorway. She had on a long navy gown, a sparkling diamond necklace with matching earrings, and her hair was let down in dark waves that reached her back. She gazed around the room for a few moments, a seemingly indifferent look upon her face, then quietly stepped out. "Madison Mason," he whispered. "Within ten minutes, I'd say. Are you ready?"

John nodded curtly. "Ready when you are."

"Remember, she may have backup." Sherlock began to scoot his seat back.

"And what happens if -"

"John." Sherlock looked at him sternly, eyebrows knitted together. "Do you doubt me?"

He gave his head a shake, a bit blindsided by the question. "I've never doubted you in my life."

"Good," he replied with a proud smirk, "don't start now." With that, Sherlock quickly stood and disappeared from view, unnoticed.

John followed Sherlock's lead, slipping out in a flash. The hallways were neverending and lined with doors. John found the staircase and started his climb to the top floor. Once there, he walked cautiously along the wall, as the other side was a completely open space, only a sturdy wooden banister separating the space between the hall and the dining area below where the guests were deep into the mystery dinner.

Rounding the corner of the wraparound view, he spotted her. She stood in the shadows, a small handgun at her side. John quickly drew his own gun from his trousers before sliding behind a support beam to wait. He watched her slowly step forward and draw the gun, aiming it down below.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," came Sherlock's deep baritone voice from the shadows. The woman was startled and whirled around, aiming the gun directly at Sherlock. John instinctively shot out of his hiding place, gun drawn at her.

"Don't," he warned ominously. Her gaze flickered wildly between the two of them, gun raised.

"It's no use," Sherlock said coolly, hands behind his back. "The police are on their way. A foiled premeditated murder? Not your best work, Mrs. Mason."

John caught the menacing gleam in her eye the moment Sherlock stopped speaking. Her finger tightened on the trigger.

"No!" John shouted through his teeth. A shot rang out through the air, causing screams of chaos from the dining room below. His shout had given just enough of a distraction that the bullet had missed Sherlock. John pulled the trigger of his own gun, letting the bullet fly through the ceiling, His additional distraction caused Madison to run as another man came barreling down the hall.

The large man came at him full force, but John was ready. With only the slightest struggle, he had wrestled and pinned the man to the ground as people continued to scatter about the house. Sherlock was nearby, Madison firmly locked in place with his grip on her wrists.

"Tell me, John," Sherlock said as he caught his breath, "would _you_  have been able to survive the 19th century, and miss all of this?"

"You want to argue about this now?"

"Now is a good a time as any."

Police sirens whined in the distance as the man below him put up a struggle. "I still could have had this life back then," he said, pinning the man down again, "still could have been a soldier, a doctor, and all of that. It's you that I wonder about."

"Pointless," Sherlock grumbled.

Once the police had come and gone, Sherlock and John started making their way back to the city, opting to walk after the adrenaline rush they had. The dense fog swirled around them, casting a dark haze upon everything in sight. The dim light from the streetlamps had a nostalgic feeling washing over the both of them, an almost sense of deja vu, as if they'd been in the exact situation hundreds of times before.

"I would have still been a detective," Sherlock suddenly said.

"I thought it was pointless to -"

"It is," he stated. "But it's simply absurd that one of us should exist in a world where the other does not, no matter how hypothetical."

John smiled up at him. "Always you and I. That's either infinite madness or brilliance."

Sherlock hummed softly. "Probably both," he joked. "And in that time, at least you wouldn't have been able to have a blog with ridiculous titles."

John laughed. "I could have written books," he pointed out.

"Who would read books about us?"

"I think you'd be surprised."

Sherlock suddenly stopped in his tracks and ruffled his hands through his hair, letting his curls fall freely. "I forgot my hat," he muttered as they began walking again, the chill air of the damp foggy night surrounding them.

John chuckled and reached into the inner pocket of his jacket, pulling out a hat he'd snatched from the house. He handed it to Sherlock who took it, frowning.

"I entirely despise you sometimes, John Watson," he said mockingly as they walked alongside each other on their way back to Baker Street.

"Liar," John responded fondly. "You'd be lost without me."

Sherlock sighed and pulled the deerstalker over his head, grinning wildly at him. "Obviously."


End file.
